


Emergence

by agent_orange



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Colorado, Graduate School, In Theatre, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Major Character Injury, Moving In Together, Rimming, Vacation, Vomiting, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 16:17:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1750889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_orange/pseuds/agent_orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only easy day was yesterday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Emergence

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://jones6.livejournal.com/profile)[**jones6**](http://jones6.livejournal.com/) for betaing. Title and section headers from "Emergence" by Joy Harjo.

_i. A thin skirt of desire skims the earth._

Despite some of the comments they make about the homoeroticism of the Marine Corps, Nate sees plenty of the younger guys freely give and receive affection—Chaffin and Garza seem to be in some sort of ongoing ass-slapping competition, and he sees Stafford walk Christeson through hand-to-hand techniques and sharpening his Ka-Bar. He often hears them rapping or talking in the back of the truck, but he doesn't listen too closely. It's private, and it's not like they try to listen in on Nate's conversations with Wynn.

Rudy and Pappy remind Nate of Alexander and Hephaestion; the comparison's easy, given that the latter were the subjects of his final Greek Literature paper (later, when Pappy gets shot and casevaced, the similarities only increase, with Rudy folding into himself even as he tries his best to be a good leader).

Nate doesn't fraternize, but only because he can't. Sometimes he feels more like a father than a brother, and he'd love to discuss sociology with Espera, or religion with Brad, but he can't be their equal, even if he wants to. He can't be anything other than proper, and Nate understands that, but it's getting more difficult every day. The (inappropriate) thoughts about his team leader started at Camp Matilda, and he figured they'd go away within a week or two.

They haven't. Nate finds himself longing to touch Brad, even a reassuring hand on his shoulder that lasts a little too long to be innocent. They're surrounded by Recon Marines, though—over twenty Recon Marines who could notice and interpret and draw their own conclusions, the worst of which being the clear, simple truth. And Nate knows he might not—probably doesn't—have the self-restraint to stop at just a gesture of encouragement in a clusterfuck. Not when there's so much more that he wants to do.

So they talk with their eyes, because the men are less likely to notice, especially in the dark. Sometimes, though, Nate thinks it's even worse this way: a shared combat jack might be forgiven in the haze and hardship of war, but their silent communications aren't about sex. Brad looks at him like he wants to see Nate open and raw, all the bullshit and formalities stripped away. It's so direct, so open, that it makes Nate shiver, even in his gear under the hot afternoon sun. It strikes Nate's core, touching at the heart of what he wants most.

Mike knows what's going on, Nate's almost sure. The Gunny hasn't said anything—to keep the unit's cohesiveness and morale as high as possible, Nate guesses, but he also suspects that Mike wouldn't care, wouldn't disregard their friendship over who Nate wants to fuck. If things change, though, if they go south and someone gets hurt, it wouldn't be good for the platoon, and that's something Mike would disapprove of. He understands that it's probably best for Nate to keep his distance from Brad.

"I'm in awe," Brad says to him after the bullshit, discouraging 'moto' speech, and Nate has to walk away. He imagines Brad's confused face and defeated eyes, but Nate can't have that conversation without violating DADT, ranting loudly enough about the captain to be charged with insubordination, or both.

Godfather's the one who ordered the supply truck burned, but Nate can't help feeling like he failed his platoon. He wonders if Brad thinks the same; the thought hurts more than it should. He wishes he could confided in Brad about the idiocy of command, wishes he could express more clearly how proud he is of the platoon for managing to excel under awful circumstances.

More than anything, he wants to earn more of those looks from Brad, the kind that buzz across Nate's skin and linger in his stomach.

_ii. I am lingering at the edge._

The transition from college student to lieutenant is difficult. Going from leading a platoon of Marines to being a grad student at Harvard seems infinitely more so. The coursework's designed to challenge him, and it does, but not beyond what he can handle.

What gets to him more is how useless it all seems, how trivial. Captain Morel gave his life while Nate was applying to grad school, and now he's continuing in the Ivy League while his men are out there, risking their lives. Getting Silver Stars if they're lucky and time in a German hospital if they're not.

Now, if Nate makes a mistake, the worst that'll happen is a bad grade on a paper, and that takes some getting used to after worrying that a minor error could cost American lives. It makes him feel so unimportant. Most of his classmates can't fully grasp international policy, and while he can't blame them, the fact that they only see the world in black and white makes him want to scream.

There's a PO3 in one of Nate's seminars; an Airman First Class in his macroeconomics lecture. It's nice to get coffee or lunch with them sometimes and talk about their tours, but it's hard to really connect with them. Lang didn't have much shit rolling down on him, and Holt, in addition to having overall competent COs, didn't see the effects of the air strikes he carried out. Perspective on the ground is different.

He makes civilian friends, or tries to, at least. His book gives people insight he wouldn't share with a casual acquaintance, and that probably scares people away, knowing he's killed. Knowing he thought about cutting someone's throat after they cut him off on the highway.

Some people aren't, though, and Nate's grateful. His tiny apartment's lonely and cold enough as is; isolation only makes it worse. Christy, who he meets in the library, later confesses she Googled him because a friend read his book, but she wasn't deterred by the violence. They become fast friends, especially since she's getting her master's in Philosophy. Her apartment's bigger, with large windows and more space to work, and Nate ends up spending a good deal of his time there. Absently, he worries that she wants more from him than friendship, but then he meets her girlfriend. And her boyfriend.

That abates his fear, and his social circle begins to widen a bit. He knows he won't meet people here who share the Corps' value of brotherhood, but he goes to parties, drinks cheap wine, stays up late talking about life. It's good. It's normal. He's happy.

Out of the blue, he hears from Brad. _I'm not the Iceman here,_ Brad writes in an email. _Nobody thinks I'm some technology and ammo genius. I'm just another Swimmer Canoeist, albeit one with excellent teeth and better taste in beverages._

But who will be First Recon's resident superhero and map expert? I think they'll _literally_ be lost without you, Nate replies.

_You flatter me, sir. Really. I'm sure a suitable replacement can be trained._

I suppose. I do wonder, though, what Ray Person will do without a functioning moral compass. Think we should warn Homeland Services?

_Fortunately, that illiterate piece of trailer trash is no longer my responsibility. That's one good thing about the UK, at least._

You mean to tell me that Britain isn't the magical land of sunshine and rainbows you expected it to be?

_That's hilarious, sir. Really. I know you're spending lots of time with those Harvard dicksucks, but I thought you'd be able to come up with something better._

You'd think. But anyway, how is it over there? I hear they're all prim and proper. Someone told me their only MRE powder is tea.

_Person's a dirty liar, sir. And no, not in my experience. You must be thinking of civilians. The SBS guys are a bunch of rowdy, filthy motherfuckers—just like in the States. You're not missing anything except freezing water, shitty roads, and abysmal beer._

Brad, I'm not your commanding officer anymore. You really don't have to call me 'sir.'

Nate doesn't hear from Brad for a couple weeks after that, but he forces himself to believe it's due to intensive training or a broken wrist. He doesn't allow himself to think about the reasons Brad still treats him like he's their LT.

He mails Brad a photo of Boson Harbor. It's hardly Brad's dream of warm, sunny California, but he figures it'll give Brad a small part of home, at least.

*

Three weeks later, he gets a postcard back.

_Appreciated the photo, Nate. You're right. I'm not your subordinate anymore. Now that I think about it, it's better this way, really._

Brad was never his subordinate, not in any of the ways that mattered. 'Why's that?' he emails Brad, since that's the part that really piqued his curiosity.

The answer takes just under forty-eight hours: _I usually end up hating the guts of the people I work with._

*

It goes on like that for weeks, back and forth by email. They even manage to catch either on IM a few times—Nate set up an account at Brad's insistence—and talk by phone once. It's awkward, though, with thousands of miles of ocean between them and the phone making the distance seem even greater.

Seven weeks is more than enough times for Nate's feelings to come to a head, and he knows he can't hide them anymore. But he's heard the story of "Brad's gold-digging hosebeast of an ex-fianceé", and Espera's confirmed the basic details, so he knows Brad might be quick to scare. Nate thinks that's a first.

"When do you get libo?" he asks casually, like he's just inviting a friend to see the sights of Boston. No pressure, no expectations.

There's a minute, and what sounds like Brad muttering under his breath, and then a response. "I can get five days this Fourth of July."

*

They don't leave Nate's bed for a day after Brad arrives.

_iii. Striking relentlessly against the flint of hard will._

After Harvard, Nate spends a few weeks bumming around, trying to figure out which job offer he should accept. He visits his parents in Baltimore for a few days. His mother fusses over him and asks how Brad is; his father helps him go over the list of pros and cons he'd made up for each job. The familiarity is boring.

In the end, he doesn't feel strongly enough about anywhere to commit. Through a series of coincidences and oddities, he ends up back in Afghanistan. As a civilian, it doesn't feel right. He's lost without his M-16 and sidearm. His quarters, however, are a dusty tent on the outskirts of Kabul, and that's familiar, at least.

The place is crawling with military policemen and officers—both active and retired—but Nate's hardly the only civilian. Once or twice, he thinks he sees Brad's familiar silhouette, but he knows he's being ridiculous. The ACA's far more cerebral than most grunts would tolerate, and besides, Brad's off doing something dangerous, the location so secret he couldn't share it with Nate.

*

Once he's back, the sand doesn't completely leave Nate's body or clothes for a week, a known annoyance that's just as bad this time around.

*

Since he didn't accept any of the offers, Nate's got nowhere he needs to be. He does some freelance consulting for various firms and upstart campaigns, lounging around his apartment in sweats when he doesn't have to be anywhere; resigning himself to a suit and tie that feels too constricting when he does.

The problem is, he doesn't feel challenged. He doesn't see problems that seem unfixable. There's no variation in his schedule, and it's hard to be interested. It's not like he's trying to be difficult, and it's not like he wants to be unemployed; if either of those things were true, he wouldn't have spent six years in school. But he also doesn't want to spend his days doing something mindless.

RAND offers Nate a position, and it seems like a good idea. It's what he thought he wanted, in terms of personality and ideology, but it just doesn't feel like the best match. Probably too blindly accepting of the Democratic platform, but that's his best guess. It's hard to tell, and he leaves after a few months.

Tufts asks Nate if he'd be interested in teaching a couple classes, despite the fact that he doesn't have a PhD. It's amazing what a dual degree from Harvard can do. Really. They say it's because of his "commitment to academia and excellent leadership in the armed forces, combined with 'life experience.'"

Some of the students he teaches aren't much younger than he is. His classes are a mixed bag: some students are enthusiastic and eager to learn, like he was, while others just stare at him with glazed-over eyes.

 _Of course you were bored_ , he hears when the year's over and he's turned down the chance to teach again. _Of course you weren't challenged. After the Marine Corps and Harvard, how could you be?_

On one hand, it's comforting that people are trying to sympathize with him. He's glad he's got some time before people start thinking he jumps around so much because he couldn't hack it. On the other hand, it's a little insulting. He didn't join the Marine Corps because he was bored or to fulfill some half-baked adolescent fantasy. A challenge might be hard to find, but he should be able to deal with mundanity he doesn't like.

Soon, he'll be too old to job-hop like this. He needs a career, something he's passionate about. He wants to feel as passionate about something as Brad does about the Marines.

_iv. I remember when there was no urge to cut the land or each other into pieces._

For some reason, Nate's alarm goes off early, waking him up at two AM instead of five-thirty. Only, he slowly realizes, it's not his alarm clock. It's the phone, ringing and ringing and ringing.

"Hello?" he says, sleep making his voice rough and scratchy.

"It's Cara," he hears. His heart instantly starts racing; Cara Wynn wouldn't call so early unless something happened. "I'm sorry to wake you," she says, "but I just heard, and wanted to tell you before you hear about it on the news. Two teams were doing legit recon in the dark and ran into trouble when their position was compromised."  

Fuck. A black op. Probably behind enemy lines. "How bad?" he asks, bracing himself for the worst. He knows how dangerous the borders of Afghanistan and Pakistan can be, and he'd been worried when Brad's orders sent him there, but the irrational part of him assumed that Brad would be fine. He's the Iceman, after all. He spotted men in the trees and climbed a mountain on a broken ankle; the idea that Brad's invincible has been hard to shake.

Until now.

"Nate?" Cara says on the other end of the line. "Are you still there?"  

"Sorry. I...spaced out."

"Of course," she replies, her voice soothing even from across the country. "There was at least one casualty, Nate. Maybe more. Mike doesn't know how many injuries, but apparently they had travel four and a half klicks in hostile territory before reaching the extraction point. I'm not sure how many injuries, but there are at least a couple."

"Do you know   about the casualty?" She probably would've told him flat-out if it was Brad, but he can't help but ask.

"Nothing yet," Cara says, and Nate can hear the apology in her voice. "All I know is what Mike tells me—" Nate wonders how he knows this much this quickly, given that he's spending six months making rounds in Baghdad "—and that Brad was second-in-command. Hasser was acting as his assistant team leader, so I'll let Ray know."  

"Thanks." That's what he appreciates about Cara: she cares, she's always strong in these situations, and she's discreet about what she knows. "Call me when you hear more?"  

"As soon as I can," she promises, hanging up. The dial tone rings dully in Nate's ears, doing nothing to help the headache he's suddenly developed. A wave of nausea rolls through him, and he hurries to the bathroom, knees thumping on the tile as he stares into the bowl of the toilet.

When he's finished, he stands up slowly, trying to regain his balance. He wipes his mouth and drinks a glass of cold water in the kitchen, back pressed to the refrigerator.

It's 11:26 at night in California. Nate leaves a message on Brad's parents' answering machine, asking them to please call him at their earliest convenience. To them, he's Brad's friend and former CO, but his parents aren't stupid and probably suspect, at least, the true nature of their relationship. Luckily, they don't seem to mind, not that Nate thought liberal, Californian Jews would.

He's grateful he doesn't have to call Ray, who's also absent from the official list. Even so, any hope Nate had of getting a good night's sleep is gone. The clock's fluorescent red numbers are taunting him, gripping each minute for what seems like an eternity before surrendering. Normally, he gets a coffee at Starbucks before catching a 7:40 train to work, but he makes a pot using fancy, imported beans his sister bought for him.

 _What if Brad's dead?_ he thinks. An image of a flag-draped coffin burns itself into Nate's mind before he can stop it. Two uniformed Casualty Assistance Calls Officers knocking on the Colberts' door. Honor guards. "Taps." It's Nate's worst nightmare, but hanging in limbo almost seems worse.

Or what if Brad's missing a limb? He's so defined by being a Marine that Nate can't imagine him any other way; he's so self-reliant and headstrong that he'd fight back every step of the way, from rehab and PT to daily life. Briefly, Nate wonders if _he's_ strong enough to handle this, to stay with Brad if he comes back not whole, but pushes the thought aside. He's physically fine. Brad might not be.

He turns on the news, even though the story won't break for hours, if it does at all. He needs the background noise while surfing the internet for anything he can find about the border, about injuries or casualties. Anything relevant, really. Disappointingly, the information that pops up is about First Recon; about how dangerous the mountains and valleys of northeastern Afghanistan are, due to their proximity to Pakistan. Awful scenarios pop into Nate's head at random, and he pictures Brad breaking when interrogated, despite his SERE training. Brad crawling, wounded, through hostile territory to the extraction point. Brad struggling to bring a fellow Marine home. Nate's almost glad he can't sleep, knowing the nightmares would be much worse.

Scrolling through more articles and links doesn't do much to distract or placate him. Nate finds discussions about the war, and people flat-out bashing the military. That pisses him off more than most things do. Just because they made mistakes over there doesn't mean people have the right to say that all soldiers are baby-killers or that the military didn't accomplish anything. Maybe they were wrong for going—that's what he's frustratingly discussing in a class right now—but they went. They did the best they could. They killed bad guys, and tried to help civilians.

By the time Nate's finished reading, it's just late enough to leave a voicemail for a friend at the Pentagon, just to see if he knows anything. Most likely, he won't get a response for another couple of hours, at least, but it'll probably be faster than he hears from Cara. She's getting her information from Mike and Marines who're pulling desk duty; plus, she'll be running group for families of those injured or killed.

 At work, Nate will be distracted and thinking of Brad, but at home, he'll have nothing to channel his energy into. He decides to go into the office and see if he can manage until five, but since it's still early, he changes and goes for a run, pushing himself hard the entire way until he's home again, sweaty and out of breath. Before showering, he checks his email and messages, and does the same when he's done.

The apple he grabs from the bowl on the counter doesn't taste like anything, even though it's ripe. He doesn't stop for coffee on the way, which good, since he's already jittery enough to get a few curious glances on the Metro. Once inside, he closes the door and sits down to answer some emails first, since that's fairly mindless.

He debates checking the news, but it turns out to be useless. None of the major networks have reported anything about Marines, period. His thoughts keep shifting from work to Brad, to other guys he knows who might've been involved. Mostly to Brad, though; the worst-case outcomes Nate involuntarily thinks up make his mouth go dry and heart pound, so he goes to the water cooler to get a drink, trying to avoid being seen.

His meeting isn't until after lunch, but there's some budget stuff that needs to be done, so Nate bargains with himself: an hour of work for another media check.

*

Forty-five minutes into the numbers crunch, his phone buzzes with an incoming call. Nate answers before it has time to ring twice.

"Jim," he says, recognizing the number flashing across the screen. "Do you know anything about a—"

"Only a little," Jim says. Nate's sort of surprised he knew exactly why Nate called, but Jim _is_ pretty perceptive. "Guy named Hasser is in Spain with a concussion, broken nose, broken ribs, bullet fragments...and another Marine named Bao is listed as classified."  

Nate exhales a breath he didn't know he was holding, hoping that, in this case, no news is good news. Still, though, he wishes he had something more concrete. Something to reassure him that Brad's fine, or that his injuries are only superficial. Now, all Nate can do is wait for Cara to call him, or for the news to break the story. The Colberts haven't called him yet; Nate wonders if they're out of town. Sharon Colbert's not a big worrier, and she fully supports Brad's career, but he's seen how much she loves him, so it strikes him as odd that he hasn't heard from her.

Nate has Aidan get him a sandwich when people go out for lunch, and he eats it slowly, glued to the TV in the lounge. He lingers there under the guise of a quick break, but it's not long before he has to leave. He has a board meeting in an hour and a half, and a policy proposal to finish and edit before that.

Concentrating is harder than before, though, and the two pages he does manage to write don't represent his best work. But he gets his point across, and that's more important. Chances are, no one will even notice; everyone's so wrapped up in their own lives that they don't care about anyone else.

Okay, he amends, not everyone. Nate really shouldn't make generalizations about humanity when he's angry, even though it's hard not to.

*

Cara calls again as Nate's eating dinner (a bowl of cereal).

"Sorry I couldn't get back to your earlier," she says. "I only heard from Mike a couple hours ago, and then I had to get things ready for Corporal Foley's widow, in case she calls."

Nate exhales heavily. "Jesus," he says. "Thank God." Relief rushes through him, even without knowing if Brad's hurt. "And..."

"Brad's stable," she continues. "He's in Germany. They can't fly him back here yet, though. His injuries were serious, Nate. Concussion, second-degree burns, shrapnel wounds, blood in his lungs, and three broken fingers. The doctors think he'll have some hearing loss in his left ear."

"Shit," Nate breathes. He really isn't sure what he's expected, and he's so glad Brad's alive and relatively okay, but he knows the realistic consequences. Brad will be pulling desk duty for some time once the worst of his injuries heal. It's impossible to guess how fucked up he'll be, because...yeah, he's the Iceman and he's calm and unflappable and generally able to compartmentalize his job, but he's also human. "Thanks," he adds, almost having forgotten about Cara, who's still on the other end of the line. "I'm sure you're really busy, but..." 

"I'll keep you posted," she says.

Nate has no idea how she does it all. Then he wonders how much vacation time he can get right away, and if he can afford to fly to Europe for an undetermined amount of time. If Brad will even want him to be there.

*  

Brad's mostly fine, or so it seems. Nate thinks that's the scariest part. He eats. He sleeps. (In a month, he only wakes up yelling four times, and only accidentally hits Nate in the face once.) He bitches about physical therapy and the 'brain rest' the doctors insisted on. To an outsider, he'd seem fine. Grumpy and recovering, but fine.

The thing is, though, he doesn't seem to want Nate. Brad shies away when Nate tries to kiss him hello or good morning, and he bristles when Nate runs a hand across his shoulders. Brad hates PDA but doesn't mind casual affection when they're in private; Nate's seen him wake up with morning wood, so he knows it's not a physical problem.

It's confusing, and he hates to sound insensitive, but he's horny. Brad had been gone for five months and he's been back for one, and the lack of sex is really starting to make him more irritable. He probably needs to get Brad's alpha male side to take over, so in bed one night, Nate pulls down his boxers and starts jerking off right there.

Brad looks up from the _Wired_ he'd been paging through to raise an eyebrow at Nate. Nate lets his mouth curve into a half-smile, but he doesn't stop, biting his lip when his thumb rubs over the head of his dick.

"Audience participation is strongly encouraged," Nate quips. "Unless you're not interested in the show, that is."  

Brad's on him then, his mouth covering Nate's in a hard kiss as he shoves Nate's hand away.

His tongue is slick and familiar, and Nate shifts them so he's straddling Brad's hips, ducking his head to keep their mouths from separating. The four minutes seem like an eternity, but it's ingrained in Nate to keep track.

"Want you to fuck me," he chokes out, watching as Brad's eyes go dark, pupils blown wide with lust. He feels Brad's cock jerk against his belly. "There's stuff in the—"  

"I know, I know," Brad cuts him off, pulling the lube from the drawer and squirting some onto his fingers.

Nate touches himself while Brad's getting him ready, keeping his motions light and cautious to avoid coming before Brad's even inside him. He winces a little at the stretch when they finally get there, not quite enough prep and too much time since they last did this, but it dissipates quickly enough, helped along when Brad's dick hits that spot inside Nate.

Brad uses the same rhythm when he starts to jerk Nate off. The sex is hard and rough and intense, perfect. Brad watches Nate like a hawk when he comes, and follows soon after.

Eventually, Nate reluctantly drags himself out of bed to get a washcloth. He's careful with his achy thighs and sensitive dick, and then he gives Brad a quick once-over.

"What took you so long?" Nate asks, touching the angry pink scar on Brad's side.

Brad's response is so quiet Nate thinks he's not meant to hear it. "Nobody wants damaged goods." 

His eyes narrow. "Listen to me," Nate says. "You're not. I do. She was crazy. And we'll get through this, no matter what."

"Loud and clear." Nate can hear the smile in Brad's words, glad things are back to normal.

_v. Entering my house by waves of sound._

Nate's alarm wakes him up every weekday at six. He's up before the sun—and most people—most days. It makes him feel productive, like he's gotten something accomplished before he really starts working.

He pulls on his workout gear and eats a banana for energy. He runs his six-mile loop, comes home, showers, and changes into his work clothes. He makes a cup of coffee and drinks it while reading the paper, the morning news on in the background.

On his way to the Metro station, Nate buys a second cup of coffee and a pastry. He listens to his iPod on the train, enjoying the few minutes of solitude before a busy day.

*

Most days, Nate doesn't leave the office before six-thirty. There's always lots of work to be done, and he doesn't have anyone to come home to—Brad's doing two cycles of instruction at dive school—unlike some of his colleagues, so he's okay with putting in the extra hours. It's quieter at night, more peaceful, and there seems to be less of a rush to get everything done as quickly as possible.

There are stars in the sky when Nate reaches his townhouse, not that Nate can see them, between the tall buildings and bright lights. (In Afghanistan, he saw the stars more clearly than ever, the Big Dipper reminding him of home.)

Dinner is either takeout (Nate tries to balance the pizza and Chinese with quick, make-it-yourself meals from Whole Foods) or something he can make with the ingredients in his fridge that doesn't involve too much effort. Sometimes he goes out for dinner or drinks, but not often enough for it to be routine.

Once inside, he takes off his shoes and tie, loosening up his shirt as he rifles through the mail. Bills, Dartmouth asking for money, Harvard asking for money, invitations to charity events, invitations to cocktail parties, more bills, a few magazines he subscribes to, a note from Lisa. If he's lucky, there's a short letter or call from Brad.

If he doesn't have work to do, he'll crash on the couch with a beer, clicking through the channels until he finds something decent; settle in with a book; or just end up messing around on the internet.

More of a constant than anything else, he calls, "I'm home," when he opens the door. The first few times, he'd actually forgotten Brad wouldn't be there when Nate got home, but now it's just a routine. A silly ritual that may or may not make him feel better. His voice sounds loud and strange in the empty rooms, everything else dead silent.

Nate hates that. The lack of noise makes him feel like he's back in theater and they're only a few minutes away from being overrun. It's uncomfortable. He likes relative silence, but not when it's like being in a morgue all night. Every sound is amplified to the point where they sound like artillery fire; the glow from the television looks extra-blue. Still, he blasts Jay-Z and Talib Kweli so loudly his neighbors probably hate him, and it's almost impossible for Nate to get to sleep without the TV on.

Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night, cold sweat chilling his body, just because something feels wrong. He'll check his phone, his email, the news; nothing ever is, though, and he'll lie there and stare at the ceiling until he falls back asleep or until it's time for his run.

_vi. A human mind is small when thinking of small things._

"I just don't know why you can't see things my way," Brad is saying. "Privatizing health care isn't going to leave more people without insurance. If companies are smart, they'll make their rates more competitive, and no one will have a monopoly. It'll actually allow more people to be insured; since companies will be fighting for the lowest premium, people will have their pick."

"Or," Nate says, thinking, "no provider will be able to keep their rates low enough to be affordable. Then we'll all be screwed, save for those lucky few who don't care about how much money they spend on prescription drugs. Plus, companies will still think it's okay to reject kids—babies, even—who aren't slim and toned two months after they're born."

"Spoken like a typical Democrat," Brad scoffs. "Why's it our problem if people think a couple kids are too much work?"

Nate looks down. He thought Brad might've been opening up to the idea of kids, which they've talked about but never concretely. Apparently not, or at least, not yet. Then again, he did just get back from another tour, and that always hardens him.

"Next you'll want to let Baptista's fifteen siblings into the country," Brad finishes.  

"Fuck you, I'm an Independent," Nate insists. "Yes, I think the current immigration laws are harsh. They don't allow many chances, and the only jobs people can get are shitty ones. If the law wasn't as unforgiving...okay, that's not even the point!"

"So?" 

"Your first argument was weak," Nate says, even though Brad could've ran with it, "and you knew it, so you decided to change the subject." He likes when they have conversations like this, though, about meaningful things and their ideas in relation. When they first started fucking, that's all it was. That's all Brad wanted, and Nate was willing to accept something over nothing. But he's glad he pushed for more. This easy back-and-forth they have, and how comfortable they are with each other...it's hard to find.

"So?" Brad says again, undeterred. "Both my points are valid and you know it."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Brad." Nate smiles. "You might need to brush up some if you want to sound like you know what you're talking about."

"Or maybe you could just tell me some tricks the assholes at Harvard use to make people think they're smart."  

"Maybe," Nate says.

"Looks like you'll be the one having trouble getting to sleep tonight, then." Brad grins. "Don't think I won't beat you one day. Because I _will_."

_vii. I will not eat or drink until I stagger into the earth._

The amount of leave time Brad's managed to accrue surprises Nate, since normally the United States Marine Corps isn't willing to give him free reign for more than a few days at a time. But apparently he's been saving up, and apparently his commanding officer is unusually generous. Brad's got a solid week and a half of vacation, and barring some freakish turn of events that eliminates all the other NCOs in First Recon, won't be deployed again for months.

Angela told Nate about some hotel in Aspen where she stayed on her honeymoon; Nate had looked it up and booked a condo that was actually pretty reasonably priced. It's mid-April, which means there could be snow, but Brad will want to do some climbing either way. He even sent Nate a list of what to pack, down to the last pair of socks. Nate wonders when Brad found the time to be so anal-retentive.

They meet at Denver International, though Nate has to wait an hour and a half for Brad's delayed flight to finally arrive. There's a quick hug at the baggage claim, with the promise of a proper hello once they reach their destination.

"I fucking hate you," Nate says quietly into Brad's ear. "I packed everything you told me to, and the bullet you like so much turned on as it was going through the X-ray machine. I had to fucking take it out for the clueless TSA and some mother actually dragged her kids into a different line, like I was some kind of sexual deviant intent on corrupting American values."

"Well, that _is_ what the Corps thinks of you, Captain," Brad deadpans, but can't stop from breaking the veneer with a grin. "Next time, stow the batteries and set it up when we reach the AO."

*

Brad insists they take Independence Pass: the drive is a little longer, but Nate has to admit the view is breathtaking. Here, he can admire everything without a second thought.

*

The tub is huge, he notes. There's enough room for him and Brad to shower together without either of them getting a concussion. Between the flight and the drive, it'd probably be best if they made use of it. Nate's tired and achy, and the shower looks so inviting. He strips down and slips in, water turned up as hot as it'll go, guessing Brad will join him when he hears the sound of water running.

He guesses right. Nate's just starting to scrub down with the fancy, complimentary soap when he feels Brad's warm body behind him. His cock is half-hard against the small of Nate's back.

"Why do you smell like a teenage girl?" Brad asks. The disgust in his voice is evident even as he eases his hand down to curl around Nate's dick.  

"Mmm," Nate moans. "It's lemon-ginger, Brad. Do you know any teenage girls who have sophisticated enough tastes to pick this out?"

Brad tightens his grip. "No," he admits. "But still, I didn't think you were going for that New Age, hippie vibe. It doesn't suit you."

Nate tilts his hips forward, but the water makes Brad's hand slick and traction-less. He lets out a frustrated little grunt, and Brad chuckles in response. 

"Patience," he says. "I'll make it so good for you if you just _wait_."

"Hurry the fuck up, then." Nate passes Brad the soap when he's finished with it, and moves on to the similarly-scented shampoo.

Not surprisingly, Brad's in and out in record time, barely stopping to dry himself off with one of the thick, plush white towels. He tugs Nate into bed before Nate can keep from soaking the sheets, but it doesn't really matter. For once, they won't be the ones who have to change them.

"On your back," Brad says, and Nate moves from the seated position he was in. They have more time than usual, and the anticipation of not knowing what Brad's going to do makes Nate's blood rush more quickly. " _Christ_ , Nate. Look at you."

Brad presses his mouth to Nate's, and then proceeds to drop kisses all down Nate's body: his chin, his collarbone, the spot on his lower belly where he's ticklish.

"Fuck, Brad, _stop_ it." He tries to squirm away, but Brad catches his hips, pinning them—and Nate—to the bed while Brad tortures him. Definitely creative. Nate bets Brad would suggest using it on the enemy to extract intelligence, half-serious.

The thought's quickly chased out when Brad leaves a bite there before taking Nate's dick into his mouth. It's so good, Brad's head bobbing while Nate watches him. His hair brushes Nate's thighs, prickly and ticklish at the same time, and he can't help but jerk away. "Sorry," he says, when Brad gives him a curious look. "Don't stop, c'mon, just..."

"Verbs, Nate. If you can't tell me, you don't really want it."

This is one of Brad's favorite taunts, and it drives Nate absolutely crazy. "Suck my dick," he says, voice ragged. "Eat me out. Do something, I don't—"

The shock of Brad pushing his tongue inside Nate, no preamble, steals the breath right out of Nate's chest. He struggles, managing to get up on his elbows so he can see Brad better. His lips are pink and wet, his tongue darting in and out.

Soon enough, Nate can't even keep his eyes open anymore; they fall shut even though he wants to watch. His body betrays him when he wills it to cooperate. Still, Brad's mouth feels as good as it looks, and a few minutes later, he comes, thrusting into Brad's mouth, Brad gripping Nate's hips so hard the skin turns white and then red.

"Shit," Nate says, enough out of breath for Brad to call him a pussy civilian fuck. "Jesus."

Brad slides the back of his hand along his mouth, leaving only a smile on his slightly-shiny lips. He crawls up so he's straddling Nate, his cock warm and heavy against Nate's belly; Nate works a hand between them to jerk Brad off just the way he likes: hard, fast, and a little rough. Brad pushes up into it, speeding the process.

"Nate," Brad chokes. " _Fuck_ , Nate, more." Without waiting, though, Brad executes a maneuver that flips their positions, so Brad's flat on his back and Nate's knees are on either side of Brad's hips. He moves Nate's hand back down to his dick, and covers it with their own.

Brad's fingers are a little wet, sliding and bumping against Nate's as they stroke Brad's dick together, fingers intertwined.

*  

Since he's seriously sticky, Nate showers again in the morning, dressing when he's done and leisurely paging through a guidebook as he waits for Brad to do the same.

Brad's itching to recon the town, Nate can tell. It isn't exactly obvious (Brad's only a little twitchy), but Nate knows by now. Especially since Brad's higher-ranked, and he's supposed to make sure the new guys can keep up, which means he's doing more guiding and less observing.

Nate's not particularly hungry, but he suggests they walk the short distance into the heart of town and find something to eat. He see Brad take a split second to check the rifle that isn't there, and Nate pretends not to see. It's a hard routine to get out of; he did it himself for longer than he'd care to admit after he left the Corps.

"Bikers behind you," Brad says without looking. "Watch out."  

Nate turns to see as he steps aside. They're at least eight meters away. "Impressive," he says, giving a playful shove when Brad responds, _not really_.

The mountain's at their back, slowly getting a little smaller with each step. Brad's brought gear, though, and he's just waiting until he drags Nate out of bed at ass o'clock to climb. It'll be a complete surprise—the weather's calling for fifty to fifty-five degrees and sunshine into next week.

Here." Brad gestures at Main Street Cafe; he orders a bacon and cheese omelette. Nate considers getting the homemade granola and fresh fruit, just to fuck with Brad, but ends up getting cinnamon raisin French toast. Breakfast is great, if a little pricey, though they can afford it.

"There's a historic tour that seems interesting," Nate suggests, signing the check. He'd found it online, and figured Brad would at least like the nighttime one (Ghosts, Murder & Mayhem).

"Later," Brad says. "Or tomorrow. I thought we could rent bikes and go up to Maroon Bells. Maybe hike a bit."  

And there it is. But Nate's morning runs are usually to stave off the inevitable weight gain from his somewhat lacking diet, and Brad normally leaves the planning up to Nate. "Okay," he says.

They walk back to the condo, load up the backseat with gear, and find a rental place just on the edge of town. The woman in the booth tells them they can't drive the rest of the way up— _over capacity,_ she says, _you can take the next bus_ —but they're prepared.

*  

Nate should _not_ have agreed to the bikes. It's uphill the whole way, incline getting steeper as he starts to sweat.

"How embarrassing," Brad comments. "The captain of Dartmouth's cycling team can't even keep up with a grunt."

"It's been almost twelve years, Brad," Nate pants. "Not all of us can lead such active lives."

*

Maroon Bells is breathtaking, no pun intended. Half of it is still covered (to some extent) in unmelted snow, but the bottom section has already started changing from brown to green. The sky's clear in the background, no clouds for as far as Nate can see. Brad had wanted to scope out the best route up, but he comes up right next to Nate, apparently finished.

"Look at those assholes," he says, staring right at a group of teenagers taking 'artsy' photos and drawing shitty pictures.

"Yeah," Nate agrees. Slowly, Brad's hand slides against his own, fingers locked together. Nate's surprised, but doesn't pull away. Nobody cares, though Nate half-expect Brad to be court-martialed right then and then. But an older woman smiles at them, and a little girl escapes her father's grasp to ask if Brad's a giant.

Nate dissolves into hysterics, absently thinking that Ray would adore the kid. Brad shoots him a look that says _I hate you_ and answers, "A friendly giant." It's such a different reaction than he had with the baby at the roadblock in Iraq. Nate realizes it's from so much time around Nate's many nieces and nephews. The father rushes over to apologize, and to discipline his daughter.

"It's fine. Really," Brad says. Once they're gone, he turns to Nate. He's got his best Iceman face on, focused and cold. "When you least expect it," he says slowly, "I'll get back at you."  

Nate can't tell if he's serious or not, so he shrugs and asks, "What's the plan?"

*

Three nights later, Nate wakes up with his mouth full of black cherry warheads. Running to the bathroom to spit them out and get a drink of water, he curses Brad, who's smiling when Nate returns to bed.

"I expected something more sophisticated from you," Nate says. "Maybe intellectual, or maybe just something with a more strategic plan. Certainly not something Ray Person's toddler could think up."

For a minute, Brad looks crestfallen. Then Nate makes a face—his tongue really fucking _hurts_ —and Brad laughs.

_viii. And awaken with the longest day in the world._

For Nate, the hardest thing about Dartmouth was learning to adapt to new ideas. It's not like he thought everyone else was wrong; he just...hadn't been challenged much in high school. His teachers fucking loved him.

(He's never told anyone, but boredom wasn't the only reason he failed Organic Chem sophomore year. He spent a lot of it pre-gaming before getting trashed at random parties and then hooking up with someone equally drunk. After winter break, he got his shit together, but he probably doesn't feel as bad about it as he should. It was his one rebellious phase, and he found himself because of it.)

Once he'd exhausted himself in training, the biggest obstacle was the mental block he had to overcome. Pain is only temporary; he's stronger than he thinks he is; anything is possible if he puts one hundred percent into it. That mentality faltered a bit during Nate's Combat Water Safety Swimmers Course, which was probably the hardest thing he's ever done. The pace was unrelenting, and though he's always been a strong swimmer, it was never something he liked. Too many possibilities for something to go wrong.

Harvard was hard in a way that undergrad wasn't. Becoming a civilian again after what seemed like a lifetime of not being one. Not having responsibilities other than going to class and studying. Once he found his stride, it was easier, but he missed his men, and he set up RSS feeds so if anything happened to them, he'd know as soon as possible.

Brad had been a completely different kind of puzzle. He'd been happy to spend hours in bed with Nate, but refused a good morning kiss. It took months before they were in something that resembled a relationship, and years before Nate learned everything about Brad.

Over time, Nate's felt things shift between him and Brad. Part of it's because Brad realized Nate wasn't going to hurt like Julie did. Their relationship isn't perfect, and they do split up a few times, but have always gotten back together. Part of it's because they both agree that they're getting too old to be living like this, stealing days and weeks of togetherness from banal, everyday life. (Brad eventually concedes that thirty-eight is too old to be shitting in holes and eating nasty-ass MREs in between getting shot at.)

After much discussion (and almost more talking about feelings than Brad can handle), Brad decides not to re-up, taking his twenty instead. He does some freelance tech work, and a little consulting, but it's clear he needs a schedule to thrive. The DoD offers Brad a position, and a day later, he faxes over the paperwork to cement his position at The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. Geeky enough to suit Brad's love of gadgets, it's still 'pretty fucking cool', and therefore, amazingly close to what Nate imagines Brad's dream job would be. He's not sure he actually understands what exactly Brad will be doing there, but Brad had mentioned something with drones and missiles and flying cars.

Like he said, amazingly close to Brad's dream job.

Nate sells his DC apartment—it's really a one-person place—and they buy a house in Springfield, an updated colonial with two garages and a brick walkway. Out of all the houses their realtor showed them, they liked it best, despite the fact that it had five bedrooms.

"We can turn one into an office, if you want," Brad had suggested. Nate noticed he didn't say anything about the other three.

Brad bitches about how living in 'hick country' is sure to make his IQ drop at least twenty points and his accent more redneck than Sixta's, but Nate assures him to the contrary. After all, CNN did rank it the most educated city.

"Besides, Brad," he says. "Maryland's where all the raging liberals live. I know you'd hate that even more."  

"You would know," Brad responds.

*

Nate had told her the offer was generous, but unnecessary, though that doesn't stop Brad's mother from flying in to help them get settled. The kitchen's a mess, boxes everywhere, so they go out to dinner.

Sharon's been not-so-subtly asking if she's ever going to have a granddaughter to spoil; Brad's sisters have all had boys. Normally, Brad evades the question, but tonight he says _maybe_.

Nate's eyebrows raised in shock. They've talked about it, a little, but Brad was against the idea when he was still active duty. Maybe he's changed his mind now that he's not. Brad would be a great father. Nate thinks about bringing it up again when Brad's mother is gone, preferably after he's sucked Brad's brains out through his dick.

Still, Nate knows he'll be happy, whatever they decide.


End file.
